A Could Be Masochist
by oneshotattack
Summary: [ ROXASxYUFFIE: ]He didn't need heroin to make him happy.
1. Beauty

Hello. I've been a naughty girl, yes I know. And school is being cool and all. Yayness. Anyways, since there is a long break, I think I'll write some fiction as I have NO HOMEWORK and I am gleeful about that. Hurrah. I love my Riku dream :D

Disclaimer: Please go do a google search on the net about Kingdom Hearts if you really don't know.

I feel like writing a drabble but I think I can't stay committed to it. Ehehehe.

A Could-Be Masochist 

-

He knew.

He knew something was wrong with him since the day he had been pushed into the sandbox by a group of bullies who called themselves his freinds, and came home battered to the bone, bruises and cuts blatantly obvious, but thought nothing of it and just cleaned himself up, despite his mother tearing and demands to know who did this to him.

He had told his mother, "My friends. It doesn't hurt."

He never really had any friends after that.

He hated, detested his mother for that. He had loved the pain they brought. He wanted that rush of pleasure he had when he was beaten up, he wanted a not-so-normal life. He hated the house with its vintage-based deign, the one with his mother in it.

Until when he was fifteen, when he could finally have friends, when his mother was killed by the same group of bullies who bullied him when he was eight.

They had came back for revenge, he thought, revenge on his mother.

He had seen his mother that night, when she was killed.

Right after his fifteen birthday.

He had heard her screams.

Her bedroom window was open, curtains torn, drops of blood trailed down the windowsill.

Her limp body was lying on her bed, oozing with sticky crimson fluid, her pretty blue eyes seemed to jut out of their sockets. The chiffon black dress on her was ripped to shreds, the one she had worn for dinner with him, celebrating his birthday with cake and chicken chops. Her blonde hair was in a mess, the usual bun was now untied. A gash on her throat bleed profusely, perhaps almost infinitely.

She gasped, and reached out her hands towards him.

The pretty blue eyes both mother and son shared interlocked, coldness in the boy, agony in the mother's.

Then the mother's hands stopped moving, erect.

He reached out a hand and felt the warm, sticky redness beneath his mother.

He realised, he hadn't felt any sadness nor anguish.

He felt nothing.

Here he was, with a woman he called his mother, seemingly dead with a puddle of redness under her.

And he hadn't called the police.

He knew his mother detested messy hair, so he decided even if she was dead, she would have wanted to look pretty and decent enough.

Decent enough for him, for the neighbours, for his bastard of a father who left them when he was eight.

He knew his father was scared of him, ever since he came home from the sandbox.

He knew his father didn't want what other people would call an "abnormal" son.

He knew.

He knew his father all too well.

He grabbed a comb from the dresser and propped his mother up, running the comb through her silky blonde hair. He took a pair of sapphire earrings and put them neatly on her ears. He took the best frock in his mother's wardrobe and helped her lifeless body in it, having difficulty with the zip behind her. He took her classic black leather pumps and slid them on her delicate pair of feet, relishing the smell of blood and synthetic leather mixed altogether, a perfect combination and diffusion in the air. They had learned Biology last year, when he was fourteen.

He took a few steps back and looked at her.

His mother was beautiful, he agreed with his thoughts.

Walking over to close the wardrobe, he spotted a photo of his father, his mother and himself.

He placed it to face his mother on the bed.

He wanted them, their whole family to see the beauty of the woman who had borne him, who had taken care of them, who had baked many a perfect apple pie.

Then he heard the siren outside his house and his knavish neighbour trying to bang into the house.

They had caught the killers, who were splattered with blood, weeping outside the white sidewalk. His neighbour was holding them captive. He pitied them, and gave them a sympathetic smile as the police barged into his house.

The muddy footprints from their boots trailed up the stairs, and disappeared once upon his mother's room. He followed.

He saw their mouths open, gaping.

He felt a surge of pride and happiness as he saw their eyes widen.

He felt proud as he told them that woman was his mother, his masterpiece.

-

Okay, this story is weird. Very weird. I think it's really weird. And in the end it became drabble-ish. Oh well, I shall continue on with it. Anyways, have a nice day and please review :D Thanks plenty.


	2. Gin

Eh, Roxas centered fic. Lalala :D

Disclaimer: I don't believe you haven't read the first part of this.

-

Crimson liquid, exactly like his mother's, oozed out of the finely craved gash.

The fruit knife near the soap dish glistened, despite the splotches of blood which soiled it.

A grin formed on his pretty features, barely plump cheeks taut.

He descended lower into the rose - scented bathwater, his sapphire eyes not flinching from the rush of water into them.

He felt happy.

-

His white crisp shirt was partly covered by the black tuxedo, black tie loose around the slender neck. Everyone who came passed by him, everyone who came stopped by him, spewing synthetic words of consolation and condolence. Words he didn't really need or care about. Still, he knew his manners, flashing smiles like a pre-programmed industrial machine, masking his apathy towards everything.

The noise, the sounds all seemed so surreal to him.

And the Neighbour was acting like the host, shedding tears like a tap and blowing his nose on a polka-dotted handkerchief, instead of him. Go figure. He turned his head towards the framed picture of his mother.

Beautiful as ever, just like the day she died, just like the day he dressed her up.

The gin was within reach, a glass right next to it. His fingers closed upon contact with the glass and the other hand, with its long fingers stretched out for the glass bottle. He poured out a glassful and situated himself in a dark corner on a chair, near where he could see his mother's face.

He swallowed down a mouthful.

It was typical teenage behaviour to him.

Typical teenage behaviour to drink alcohol when something happens, to rid all the emotions that come with them.

Even to rid apathy.

-

He was at the third glass of gin. He still couldn't get drunk.

He still couldn't replace the apathy with alcohol.

Probably too many drinking sessions with his mother, he thought.

He remembered.

His mother lugging home packs of beer in huge bags, banging them on the table, him pouring the nuts into a bowl, him removing the beer cans from the packs.

He remembered.

Him hearing, looking at his mother cry and wail, her drinking till the bitter brew dribbled out of those cherry-shaded lips, her drinking till her head hit the dining table hard, him drinking the leftover cans of beer and discarding them away.

He remembered it all.

He thought he was being a filial, good son.

For the sake of repaying the one who brought him up with what every mother wanted.

Even if he hated her.

He toyed with the now empty glass, twisting it in his palm and tossing it in the air, despite the cries of a few fashionably-dressed old ladies. He decided to pour himself another glass.

And another. And another. Till he could not feel the way he could not feel now.

Another, another, another.

Another.

-

The gin pouring down his throat had halted, the source of alcohol, the mug had been snatched away from him. He slumped further into the chair, which was difficult to achieve.

A slender hand thrust him a pack of breath mints.

"Boy, you smell rather bad." The feminine, joking voice rang in his ears. He covered them tightly.

From the darkness, he heard a faint chuckle and a pair of something - something warm - making contact with his hands. He felt his hands gently removed from their position by the warm objects, barely audible sound becoming audible.

He realised they were hands. Hands which belonged to the feminine voice.

She had kept her hands on his, grinning at him. A warm, pleasant grin.

He looked at the mess of hands. It was the first time someone else touched him besides his mother.

It was his first contact with the outside world since eight years old.

"You shouldn't be drinking that during your mom's wake! Go talk to your friends instead of sitting here like a stone, yes?"

He glanced at her. Go talk to his friends. Talk. Friends. He didn't really understand those words till she said them.

"I am."

She was his first friend.

-

Ehehehe, I'm tired. I've already thought of how to end this. A sad ending, for once. Please review and give constructive **criticism** cause I think I need it :D And to readers of Pretty Face, I can't update it cause my computer's down. I'm using my bro's computer. Psssh.


	3. Boy

Thanks for the reviews everyone. Well, since it's gonna be AngelKairi's birthday soon, I guess this chapter would be dedicated to her. Happy birthday and many more to come :D

And I'm curious why the word "criticism" in the last chapter was bolded. It wasn't on purpose, but. Oh well, shan't bother with it.

Disclaimer: Ooggaa booggaa poo pooooo. The Best Disclaimer in the world.

-

The olive green covers of the bed was strewn with cards and torn up letters from well-wishers.

He flipped open the card on the deck of cards. It was an ace of spades, the last ace.

He fingers quivered slightly over the razor-sharp corners of the card.

He placed it next to the ace of diamonds, gingerly, as though the bed would break if he used any more strength.

He flipped the last card of the deck.

Two of spades. He put it on the ace. Another winning game, he thought.

His hands moved around, arranging the cards according to their suits.

His mother used to take his hands in hers and comment on how long his fingers were, how beautiful his hands were.

He picked up the last card to complete the game.

The King of Hearts.

He slid the corner of it across his palm, exerting pressure on the delicately coloured skin.

The liquid that had became habitual for him to see rose from the newly formed cut, minute but strangely deep for a cut from a card.

His mother would still be proud of these hands.

-

The covers that shrouded him through the night was flung onto the floor suddenly, his exposed upper torso revealing his finely-toned abs. He had heard a continuous, ringing sound in the air, in his sleep. He glanced at the illuminated clock by his bedside.

It was eleven in the morning.

The ringing noise proceeded. The pillow, acting as his earmuffs, could not provide any comfortable blockage to his ears from the sound. He gave up, cursing profusely as he walked to the door.

He didn't want to open the door to another one of those old ladies who came to poke around in his life and to console him with the synthetic words and the saccharine voices all again. He heard those a thousand times since the day his mother died.

He didn't need them.

He only needed himself.

His hand hovered over the gold-coated doorknob.

Then he twisted it.

-

"Boy, you sure sleep funny." The familiar, joking voice and her chuckle rang in his ears.

Considering it was the only voice he had ever heard besides his mother's.

His eyes set upon her face, he studied her Asian features closely.

Raven black hair, cropped layered and short, with a pair of indigo eyes, complete with a set of dark, long lashes, all set in a babyish face with cheeks tinted with pink.

Not bad at all, he thought, with those eyes to compliment her face.

Unique, just like her.

He felt someone tugging at the fabric on his legs.

Kneeled on the floor, an innocent look plastered on her face, her fingers grasping the denim fabric in her hands.

"You wear tight jeans and a black leather belt to sleep huh? You're weird, kiddo."

She grinned at him.

He stared at her.

Weird, just like him.

-

"So. Tell me why you dragged me out here in this morning where I could have slept in for a couple more hours?"

The Red Man blinked. She had a bemused expression on her face, her attention span divided, partly on the shiny silver button right next to her, and partly by him.

"How do you get your hair so spiky? I mean, you don't use gel right? Reminds me of my friend's hair! It's so cool, I wish I had hair like that! Imagine the wonders of not using a comb!" He sighed and took a couple of steps away from her.

He never knew his first friend would be so…weird. But, he was weird too. So.

He proudly admitted silently to himself he was a hypocrite.

"Hey, let's go grab a bite, okay new friend?" She swung her black tote wildly, scaring the little boy next to her who gripped on to his mother's hand tighter.

He raised an eyebrow.

"Um, what does "grab a bite" mean?" She gaped at him and her hand stopped in midair.

_Swoosh._

He regretted the query.

The little boy next to her blinked.

Comics, gum wrappers, lipbalm, a lollipop, keys, a handphone, a pad of paper, a black marker, and a creamy white wallet adorned with silver studs littered the once-clean pavement. She grinned sheepishly.

"Oops." She bent down. He followed suit.

"it means to go grab something to eat from a place, weirdo. Geez, you've never had a friend or what?" Wonderful. She read right straight into him. He picked up the strawberry-flavoured lollipop and thrust it in her direction.

"Actually, yes." Her eyes were glued on him, the orbs expanding to twice their size. She dumped the comic in her tote. He noted the girly cover and the many tiny hearts on it.

The little boy loosened his grip on the hand he clutched so tightly, waded over to the curb and bent down.

"Then I'll be the best you've ever had." Her hand over his, she pushed the lollipop back to him, his hand onto his chest.

She picked up the black tote, rendered useless while on the ground, and swung it onto her shoulder, black strap over the turquoise-coloured tee, self-designed chucks tapping on the stunningly white pavement.

A flash of light.

The little boy sprinted off, his mother shouting, screaming at him to come back.

The Green Man was lit up.

-

So, he had eaten breakfast with her. And he had learnt what was called "grab a bite". And he had eaten what she called the "most superdupercalifragil-whatever-wonderful-fantastic-yum-yum meal ever", which had turned out to be some weird dark creamy substance with chucks of chocolate in it. Well, it wasn't bad.

After all those years he had gone organic.

The first taste of the outside world since eight years old.

The white, ruffled shirt which was on him landed gently on the olive green covers which retained the smell of the rose-scented perfume his mother would add to the covers each time.

He observed himself in the mirror, the reflection facing him, arms hanging by his side.

The hand with its bloody blemish, the hand which was part of what his mother was so proud of gripped at his chest, squeezing the flesh which was near his heart.

The little boy he saw today had strummed on his heartstrings hard, the awful melody killing him.

The little boy was him.

-

Woah, doesn't make much sense. Ehehehe, please review and thanks for reading:D


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